


Derezzed

by Mandaloria593



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Choking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tron AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29491647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandaloria593/pseuds/Mandaloria593
Summary: The Mandalorian was the the most sleek and dangerous thing on the grid. Armed with his twin identity discs, sharp as blades, he enforced the imperial system’s will. And he was hunting Din. If only Din could remind the Mandalorian of his real identity: a defender.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Comments: 14
Kudos: 116





	Derezzed

**Author's Note:**

> Boba Fett as Tron/Rinzler. Thanks to [kaermorons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons) for getting excited with me over the possibility of a Star Wars Tron AU! For inspiration, check out this [fanart](https://so00our.tumblr.com/post/151876759204/tron-star-wars) I saw on tumblr.

Din kicked the accelerator on his light cycle and zoomed down the rail line. 

He had to get out of there. He had to get Grogu to safety. The green isomorph with the big ears and powers of the Creator was tucked into Din’s satchel. He was scared, and rightly so. Din was scared, too.

He hadn’t been sure what to expect coming here. He was the first to cross the Portal and enter the system in cycles. 

He’d hoped to find an ally in the first program. The defender. But it had become quickly apparent that the once-defender had been corrupted. Now, he was just an enforcer of the imperial system’s will. He didn’t even remember his own name. The other, later-cloned programs just called him the Mandalorian. The moniker was an insult to his true origins.

The Mandalorian was hot on Din’s trail. 

Din pushed the light cycle’s throttle, racing across the rail-line bridge over the Sea of Simulation. If they could get across, they’d be safe. They’d be able to hide in the uncharted regions. Off the grid. But if the Mandalorian landed a hit on them and knocked them into the sea, that’d be the end of it. Grogu’s unique programming would be derezzed in a shattering of broken pixels as his identity disc became reabsorbed into the very system that spawned him.

Din would survive. 

But he’d have failed in his quest. And he wasn’t sure he could live with that. He was a defender, too. He may not be programmed the way the others were here, but protectiveness was keyed into his very soul from the Way in which he was raised, as much as any pre-written code could have etched it into his newly-forged identity disc. 

He had to escape the Mandalorian.

Or free the Mandalorian from his unwitting servitude. 

Din could really use his help right now. 

The lights dotting the rail line zipped by Din in a blur, rushing so fast they formed a single ribbon of light. Everything on the grid was sleek, inky black, highlighted with lines of bright neon light. The sky was black. The rail line was black. The sea was black. Din’s light cycle was black. His clothes were black, trimmed in green light like Grogu’s. 

The Mandalorian and his light cycle were trimmed in lit hues of coppery gold. And when Din twisted his helmet to the side, he saw the Mandalorian had pulled alongside Din. How was he so fast?! Defender protocols forgotten or not, none of the Mandalorian’s hunting skills had diminished in his time on the grid. 

_Crunch!_

The Mandalorian’s light cycle rammed into Din’s, trying to push him off course. Din managed to hold it steady. 

_Crunch!_

Rammed again. Kriff! Din reached for his blaster at his hip, but the brutal _ping_ of an identity disc thrown with deadly precision collided with his vambrace. An inch lower and Din’s hand would have been cut clean through. Din sneaked a glance to his right, and saw the truly menacing black reflective helmet of the Mandalorian focused right on him. 

Before the Mandalorian could ram him again, Din tightened his grip on the steering with his right hand and with his left shot out his grappling line towards the Mandalorian. 

It landed! The wire snaked around the Mandalorian’s arm in a series of loops. Din stole one more look at the shiny black t-visor before slamming on the brakes and yanking on the grappling line _hard._

Din’s light cycle skidded to a halt in a shower of sparks, and he only stopped it from toppling over by slamming his boot down and bracing himself. 

The Mandalorian wasn’t so lucky. He’d been flung off his light cycle into the air, caught like a fish on the line. His light cycle sailed off the edge of the bridge, plunging into the sea in a shower of obliterated, derezzed pixels. But the Mandalorian’s momentum posed a new problem for Din, who couldn’t get the release control to engage. Din slammed the buttons on his vambrace. _Come on, come one! Dank farrik, release!_

Heart pounding and eyes wide behind his visor, Din planted both feet on the ground and tugged hard, trying to hold firm onto the grappling line as the Mandalorian tumbled over the edge after his light cycle. His fall threatened to carry them both into the sea. 

Through sheer force of will, Din caught the other’s weight and reeled him back. He sagged with exertion when he finally saw two arms clawing their way back onto the bridge. Din frantically tried to release the grappling line before the Mandalorian could climb to his feet and take over the reins. 

Grogu whimpered from his place in Din’s satchel. “Stay down!” Din ordered him, trying not to panic as the Mandalorian successfully dragged himself up from the ledge and got into a stable-looking position on one knee. 

In a tug-of-war over the grappling line, the Mandalorian would win.

Just as the line became taut again, the danger of being yanked off his _own_ feet increasing, Din _sliced_ through it with his unsheathed vibroblade. He stumbled back as the tension of the grappling line broke, but managed to stay on his feet. 

Din leapt back onto his light cycle, black cape billowing behind him. He crushed the pedal and accelerated, intending to drive right past the still-kneeling Mandalorian to reach the safety of the unknown regions. 

He didn’t expect the Mandalorian’s reflexes to be as good as they were.

He certainly didn’t expect the Mandalorian to launch himself into the air with the help of a jetpack and pounce, _landing_ _on the back of Din’s light cycle!_

The unbalanced weight of the extra rider nearly caused Din to lose control of the vehicle. He barely managed to keep the front wheel from spinning out. When strong arms wrapped around him, Din gasped.

“You’re going to make us crash!” Din shouted in warning. But maybe that was the Mandalorian’s intention. 

Din worried the Mandalorian was going to grab Grogu right from under him, and the sound of tearing fabric made him risk grabbing the satchel with one hand. But Din felt hands at the cowl around his neck. It was Din’s cape that was ripped off, exposing his identity disc. Better his than Grogu’s, right? “Take it!” he shouted. “Take it and let us go!” 

Din was perfectly aware that the Mandalorian could probably secure both Din’s identity disc _and_ Grogu, but he hoped his lack of resistance would be met with some kind of mercy. That was unlikely, however. Maybe the Mandalorian was so corrupted he didn’t remember concepts like honor, clan, or mercy at all. 

Despite the helmet’s close proximity to Din’s, Din was disturbed that he still hadn’t heard the Mandalorian speak. All he heard the Mandalorian produce was a rhythmic rattling sound like a broken purr. Either his voice or his vocoder was damaged. Din shuddered to think it might be his voice that was ruined. The imps were nothing if not thorough in their destructive power. He could imagine their sick thrill in silencing a program like the Mandalorian—or at least, what the Mandalorian was _meant_ to be. 

As Din shook, gloved fingers wrapped harshly around Din’s throat. Din tried not to jerk the controls of the light cycle in response. He felt the instant his identity disc was detached from his back. He’d be fine without it, right? He wasn’t a program. Still, when he’d first arrived here, he’d been told to protect it with his life, as it was their only key out of the system. But protecting it _or_ his life paled in comparison to his quest to protect Grogu. 

“Just take it and go!” Din pleaded again, voicebox throbbing painfully under the press of leather-clad fingers. He hoped the Mandalorian would take the bait and ignite his jetpack to fly away with his prize.

They were almost to the end of the rail line. Would the Mandalorian risk crossing over the boundary with them where they couldn't be tracked by imperials?

Din realized the Mandalorian had no intention of crossing off-grid with them when he felt a second hand wrap around his throat, ten fingers now making a concerted effort to choke Din.

He just needed to keep it together and not pass out until they made it across the threshold. Just a few more seconds…

But Din couldn’t breathe. The Mandalorian was a heavy shadow over him. A solid, dangerous weight at Din’s back and around his neck. Din’s vision was getting blurry. He started to sway in his seat.

He heard Grogu’s warbling cry.

And then the light cycle was crashing, spinning across the rail line. Din was flung off the seat. He went tumbling across the ground, the satchel with Grogu tucked into his stomach as he attempted a protective duck-and-roll landing. 

When they finally skidded to a painful stop, he opened his eyes and saw two black boots in front of his face. _Nooooo._ Din reached out helplessly as the Mandalorian bent down and picked up Grogu. _No, not the iso, no!_ “Grogu!” Din tried to call, but his voice was hoarse from his airway being recently crushed under the Mandalorian’s forceful hold. 

As Din struggled to catch his breath, he could only watch as the Mandalorian held Grogu at arms’ length, like he was afraid to touch him. The Mandalorian’s broken purr rattled loudly. Grogu tilted his head and stretched one arm towards the dark helmet. Din wasn’t sure what was happening. 

Grogu and the Mandalorian were locked in a frozen tableau. Din’s panic rose to alarming heights.

The Mandalorian suddenly dropped like a marionette with its strings cut. As he fell, Grogu toppled out of his arms. 

“Grogu!”

Grogu was lying on the ground, like Din and the Mandalorian, but he opened his large brown eyes and blinked slowly at Din before closing them and not opening them again. Din crawled towards him, fighting through the sharp pain lancing through his body from the light cycle crash. He made it to Grogu, and cuddled the iso close to his chest. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay,” he murmured hoarsely. 

Mere inches away, the Mandalorian’s body was quiescent, save for the rise and fall of his chest. Din wished he had the strength to kick him or punch him. He didn’t want to de-rez him. He _couldn’t._ The Mandalorian might not remember who he really was, but _Din_ remembered. He couldn’t imagine bringing himself to de-rez him permanently. 

But for now, he should let sleeping monsters lie. He needed to get his identity disc and get away with Grogu. He needed to _get up._

Din’s head swam as he labored to sit up and tuck Grogu back into the satchel on his hip. He then leaned over the Mandalorian and carefully retrieved his own identity disc. He secured it in place on his back with a _snick._

And something grabbed his wrist.

Din jolted from the strong grip and was pulled down to the Mandalorian’s chest. Din yelped, gaping at the reflective black t-visor that locked in on him, as if intent on pinning him with the intensity of his gaze alone.

Crushed to the Mandalorian’s body, Din only stopped twisting to free himself when he heard the vocoder wheeze and sputter. The Mandalorian spoke, addressing Din in a shocked tone, his voice dry and cracked from disuse. “Mando?”

Din stared back at him as they slowly moved to a sitting position with Din practically draped across the Mandalorian’s lap. He squeezed the Mandalorian’s arm between his vambrace and pauldron, seeking to latch onto flesh. Could Grogu have really…? “Boba Fett?”

The helmet dipped in a short nod.

Din reached out his other hand to cradle his palm to the side of the Mandalorian’s—Boba Fett’s?—helmet. “Do you know who you are?”

The Mandalorian rasped, “I’m Boba Fett. I’m a defender. My duty...is to protect?”

“Yes,” Din said softly. “Yes,” he said again, excitement mounting. “Fett, I need your help. We are tasked with protecting the iso.” Din opened the top of the satchel, revealing Grogu sleeping inside. 

Fett glanced down at Grogu then back up at Din. “He is clan?”

“He is clan,” Din confirmed. 

Fett pointed at Din. “You and I…We are Mandalorians.”

_“Yes.”_

“You and I...Are we clan?”

Din hesitated, uncertain whether lying would be in his best interests or not. He decided that if Grogu had somehow returned Fett to his true self, lying to him would be a bad start to building trust between them. “No.”

Fett cocked his helmet disarmingly. “You wanted to say yes. You want us to be clan?”

Perceptive bastard. Din exhaled noisily, feeling a flush creep up his neck and into his cheeks. He dropped his hand from Fett’s helmet. This was _insane._ He couldn’t be _reacting_ to Fett, just because he was Fett again and not the murderous psychopath who’d been trying to kill Din only moments ago with his hands around Din’s neck. Din didn’t even know if this transformation would last, or if it was just a temporary reprieve. How could Fett be eliciting this response from Din?

And he _was_ eliciting a response. Din still hadn’t let go of Fett’s arm, and they were still much, much too close. But if an internal switch had flipped in Fett, an echo of one had flipped inside of Din, too. Fett was the _first._ Fett was the incarnation of the best of them. Fett was deadly and beautiful. Renowned throughout the galaxy. Din wasn’t born in the system, but he was drawn to Fett as if it was somehow _ingrained_ in him. 

Din’s breath caught when Fett pinched the brim of Din’s helmet between his index finger and thumb, tilting it up slightly to expose Din’s neck and jaw. 

“You are injured,” Fett’s dry voice rumbled, somewhat reminiscent of his former broken purr. But now instead of threatening, the low vibration was making Din _weak._ Fett was _undoing him._

“Yeah, you have a pretty strong grip.”

“I did this,” Fett said, rolling the words around in his mouth like a question. He petted the mottled purple skin of Din’s neck, gloved fingers as gentle now as they were cruel before, and Din felt his skin warming to Fett’s touch. “I bruised you.”

“Yeah,” Din said again. “It’s okay though. I’m okay. You won’t hurt me again, right?”

Fett tipped Din’s helmet back to eye level. “I won’t hurt you.”

Din wanted to believe him. He’d wanted to find him, and now he had. And this was really him, not the midnight wraith with the rattling purr that had dogged his steps as he rescued the iso. This was _Boba Fett._ “Come with me,” Din urged. 

“Very well,” Fett said after a long pause. 

Fett helped Din to his feet. He began patting Din down for injuries, discovering plenty of their locations through hisses from behind Din’s teeth. Fett’s gentle touch flared on sensitive flesh where Din had bore the brunt of the crash from his light cycle. In comparison, Fett was in good shape, having used the jetpack to cushion his landing. Fett held out his palm. “Give me your identity disc. I can heal the injuries I caused you.” 

Actually, he couldn’t. “Don’t bother,” Din mustered up in response. “I’ll be fine. Just a little sore.” Maybe Grogu could help him later, if he recovered well enough. Or maybe they’d be out of the system altogether by then.

Fett’s suspicious judgment settled on Din like a yoke, but Din shrugged it off. Instead, he turned his attention to the crashed light cycle. “Think it’ll still run?”

“Yes,” Fett answered. His shorter, stouter form bent over the fallen light cycle, tinkering with its code. 

Really, Din should be able to hack it with little more than a thought and a will. But he hadn’t tried anything like that yet, and he wasn’t ready for Fett to know the extent of Din’s capabilities here on the grid. He had a suspicion the imps never told the Mandalorian whom he was hunting, other than the iso. And if he _had_ known, Fett probably didn’t want to remember everything about being the imps' tool. Din would spare him that if he could.

Din was admittedly ogling Fett as he worked. Though shorter than Din, he somehow seemed to fill more space. It was something about the power he carried. The premier defender. Seeing him put his contained chaotic energy towards such delicate work as fixing the light cycle was compelling. In short enough time, Din heard the rev of the light cycle’s engines, humming and ready to go. This time, Fett got on first. After checking to make sure Grogu was secure in his satchel, Din hopped on the back, wrapping his arms around Fett’s muscled, compact physique. Fett kicked the light cycle into gear, revved the engine, and they were off. 

With little fanfare, they crossed into the unknown regions. They’d be safe here until the timing was right to head to the Portal. 

A strange, silvery rain started to fall in fat droplets over their black and light-lined armor. 

“Hold the little one tight. Don’t let it touch your skin,” Fett cautioned. 

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“The rain is a sickness over the system.”

They took shelter in a narrow cave overlooking a rocky canyon. Fett lit a fire so they could let the supposedly poisonous rain dry from their armor. Fett pulled out a fresh robe from his own satchel, and Din carefully wrapped Grogu in it, settling him near the fire for warmth. Grogu briefly opened his eyes and looked trustingly at Din before yawning and going back to sleep. Whatever he’d done to Fett had really enervated him. Din suspected he’d sleep soundly through the night.

Din went to sit by Fett at the mouth of the cave. Lightning lit up the sky, making the raindrops dance in a reflective light show. Fett held out his gloved palm again. “Now will you let me repair your injuries?”

“No.” Din smiled tightly at him from behind his helmet. Free from imperialist bastardization, Fett’s overriding objective was to protect. To offer care and support. Din wished he could take him up on it. But tweaking his identity disc would do nothing for him. 

“I must insist--”

“I don’t need you to do anything you’re not already doing,” Din told him.

Fett gestured with his hands, implying that he was doing nothing.

“You’re _with_ me. That’s already more than I could hope for.”

“I am with you, Mando,” Fett concurred. 

“Din,” he said, relieved to be able to offer something, as he placed his own hand in Fett’s. “Din Djarin.”

Fett’s fingers closed around Din's. “I’m pleased to meet you Din Djarin. I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Din mused. “Things are looking pretty good from where I sit.”

Fett lowered his helm. “Perhaps you hit your head harder than I thought. You should remove your helmet so I can check you for a head wound.”

Din flushed at the thought of such intimacy. “You remove your helmet?”

“Of course. It is not glued to my head.” 

“I don’t,” Din said quietly. “I don’t take it off in front of anyone.” To be more precise, he didn’t take it off in front of any _living thing._ Maybe there was a loophole here. For all that Fett felt like flesh and blood beside him, technically, Fett was a program. He lived, but only here in the system. Unless Din brought him out through the Portal. _Until_ Din brought him out through the Portal. 

“I can leave mine on if it makes you more comfortable,” Fett said. “But I am concerned about you. Perhaps if we both take them off, you will feel less vulnerable, and then I can inspect your head.”

“No thank you,” Din said at last, choosing not to exploit the loophole. He chose to treat Fett the way Din intended to see him truly become by the end of this. 

“What of your other injuries?” Fett prompted.

“Hm?”

“I suspect you are bruised from head to toe. If we are to stay out in this wasteland for any length of time, you should at least treat them superficially, if you will not treat them at their datacore roots.”

“I don’t have anythin--”

Fett was rustling through several of the pouches attached to his bandolier. He retrieved a small jar. “This heals.” He tossed it to Din. 

Din opened the jar and smelled its contents. The strong, spicy aroma of the salve was unmistakable. It smelled like a healing poultice. Not just any poultice, but the _exact_ blend used by Din’s covert. How was it recreated here in the system so meticulously? Din marveled at it.

“You approve?” Fett asked, interrupting Din’s thoughts. 

“Uh, yeah. I guess I can use some of this.”

Fett tilted his helmet down even lower. “Good. Undress.”

Din gulped. “Excuse me?”

Fett had gotten to his feet and was looming over him. “Take off your clothes. Leave the helmet on, if you must.”

Din gaped at him, even though Fett’s tone made him hungry as he imagined the defender’s gaze and touch on his sensitive skin. “I can put this on myself.”

“Good. Show me.”

“You’re just going to watch?” Din nearly squeaked.

“Unless you invite me to do more? Yes.”

Din had never been one for exhibitionism, but something about the idea of Fett watching him obscenely rub the salve into his skin all over his body was alluring. Treacherously so. Din slowly started removing his shining black armor, piece by piece. He unsecured his shoulder pauldrons, then loosened the cowl around his neck in order to unbuckle the cuirass. All of it came off under the Mandalorian’s—under _Boba Fett’s_ watchful gaze. Vambraces, vest, flightsuit, undergarments. Thigh plates, knee guards, boots. He bunched up his cowl and flightsuit to serve as a cushion as he stripped down to nakedness. 

A chill ran through Din’s body that had little to do with the cold and everything to do with the imposing figure of Fett at his side. Watching him. Din fumbled with the jar of poultice, dipping two fingers into the gelatinous substance and spreading it first against his neck. “Aaaah.” The cool relief on Din’s bruised skin was heavenly. He sped up his pace in order to swipe the stuff all over the rest of his bared skin wherever he felt tenderness. 

He heard a muted purr and looked up to see that Fett had come closer, nearly close enough to touch. But Din knew he wouldn’t. Din knew Fett was as good as his word. Knowing Fett was all coiled desire next to him, restrained only by his iron will, was getting Din hopelessly turned on. He was swelling to full hardness beneath Fett’s black-visored gaze. He couldn’t know exactly at which part of his body Fett was looking at any given moment, but he could feel that he was _looking_ appreciatively. Din took good care of his body. He imagined Fett was probably staring at his erection, which jutted up proudly against his straining stomach muscles as Din worked to apply the salve everywhere but there.

“Touch yourself, Din.” 

The suggestion was what Din had been waiting for. Din stroked his hardness the way he usually did. Short, fast strokes, intent on getting off.

“Slower,” Fett encouraged. “Let me see you enjoy it.”

“Please, touch me,” Din gasped, unable to draw it out any longer without Fett’s involvement.

Fett crawled over to him and placed his hands on Din’s hips, holding him down. The position was rather intimidating. Fett was still a bit scary, all things considered, but Din’s erection didn’t flag. If anything, he felt a thrill shoot up his spine. 

Fett suddenly swallowed him down, root to tip.

Din jerked his hips in a bitten-off shout of pleasure, but Fett held him down easily, keeping Din from thrusting into his mouth. 

“Oh, Fett, _Boba,_ please, please.” The needy words poured from Din’s mouth, uncontrolled.

Fett obliged him, picking up the pace of his lips sliding over Din’s cock. He freed one of his hands to cup and roll Din’s balls.

Din was about to explode. 

“Fett, I’m going to--”

“Come. Din, come.”

As if Fett’s softly spoken urging was like a command straight from the tenets of the system’s base coding, Din came, spilling his release into Fett’s hand.

Fett brought his semen-coated hand to his lips and licked it, tasting Din on his tongue. 

Din moaned something incoherent and fell back. 

Until he remembered that Fett hadn’t come. Din sat up and reached for Fett’s belt buckle. “Let me,” he begged.

“You don’t--”

Din refused to let go, refused to give up the chance to have Fett. “I want to, _so much,_ I _want_ you.” 

He sighed and nuzzled into the musky scent of Fett’s arousal as he freed him from his pants. 

“I’m already close,” Fett said, in warning or self-consciousness, Din couldn’t tell. 

“Then just take what you need. Please. I’m yours.”

Fett pushed Din back until he was splayed against his bunched up clothes again. Fett stretched out over Din’s body, rolling his hips as he rode Din’s thigh. The bruises mottling Din’s skin hurt deliciously, the sting of Fett’s touch on tender skin dampened just enough to keep things pleasurable as the salve did its job to dull the edge and begin the healing process. But having Fett all over him was definitely going to leave its own marks. 

Fett was pushing his cock between the cleft of Din’s ass cheeks, and Din clenched his thighs together, trying to offer a good amount of friction to help get Fett off. It was enough, and between the tight heat heat of bodies, Fett came, grunting through his orgasm as he pumped his hips in stuttered thrusts, emptying himself between Din’s legs. 

Fett flopped onto his side next to Din. Din immediately rolled over until he was half on top of him. He ran his fingers up and down Fett’s still-clothed chest. He hummed happily. 

The rain had stopped. 

Din was mildly regretful at that, since he wanted to run out naked in it and clean the spunk and sweat from his skin. But Fett had claimed the rain was dangerous. Din didn’t know if it was dangerous to _him_ or not. Some dangers on the grid were just as fatal to Din as to its program inhabitants. Others were less so. 

Din let his eyes close, and he drifted. 

He hadn’t noticed when Fett had shifted, their bodies still in contact but not entwined with one another.

“What is _this?!”_

Fett’s distressed question broke through the post-orgasmic haze. Din swiveled around in time to see Fett holding Din’s identity disc—Din’s _very-much-_ ** _not-a-program_** identity disc. It was activated and glowing. They’d both put theirs down before getting to business, Din’s single disc laying next to Fett’s twin discs. But now, Fett was holding Din’s identity disc, and it was _activated._ Fett could see _everything_ in the swirling pixelated circle of light that contained as many stars as the galaxy itself. 

Fett tore his helmet off and, in his full naked glory, charged at Din with shock on his aged but still handsome face. “Din, what _are you?!”_

This was not how Din had wanted to tell Fett that he wasn’t a program. 

Din was a User. 

********

_User. User. User. User._

Din ducked his head as Fett kept repeating the word like a mantra. 

He had gotten Fett to calm down and give them both a chance to get fully dressed again before continuing the conversation. But Fett already seemed resigned to the truth. He was acting reserved and deferential with Din, as if Din was, well, some kind of deity. 

Fett was pacing back and forth in the narrow space. “I can’t believe I had my hands all over you. I debased you. I had no right. I--”

“I wanted you to!” Din exclaimed. “I’m not what you think. I’m just...me. I’m just Din. In fact, I want you to do it again.” 

“I am supposed to protect you.”

“You’re taking great care of me.” Din was sitting with his knees tucked under his chin. “The plan is to hide off the grid until the right moment to rush the Portal.”

“And how will you open the Portal?” Fett asked, though the way he asked the question suggested he had an inkling. 

“My identity disc works as a key to unlock the Portal.”

“Your identity disc works as a _key,”_ Fett repeated numbly.

“Yes, I’m--”

“Din.” Fett crouched down and placed a tentative hand on Din’s chest. “Din, you’re not a program.” The awe-struck words were delivered in a whisper, as if saying them aloud made them real. 

“No,” Din agreed, “I’m not.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Fett said seriously. “The system isn’t safe for you.”

“I know,” Din agreed, shaking his head, abashed. “I kind of figured that out when everyone started trying to kill me. But the Creator left clues for me to find my way into the system. That journey has led me on a quest to save Grogu. He’s the last isomorph. A vergence of the system itself.”

The word made Fett freeze. “The isomorphs are a virus. They were eliminated in order to build the perfect system.”

Din glanced over at Grogu’s sleeping form. “Lies. Imperial propaganda. They ruin everything they touch--”

“Like me,” Fett said sadly. “I am starting to remember.” He clenched his fists. “I don’t _want_ to remember.”

Din reached out to soothe him, craving connection again. “Don’t dwell on it now. Just come with me. With us.”

“I can’t leave the system,” Fett said blandly. “I don’t exist out there.”

“You _can,”_ Din assured him. “You _do._ You are Mando’ad.”

 _" Dar_ ’manda,” Fett corrected. 

Din grabbed his shoulders. “No, can’t you feel it? What Grogu did to you? He _changed_ you.”

“My base programming--”

“Can be rewritten.”

“Corroded.”

 _“Adapted._ _Boba,_ please. Trust me.” 

Fett was pushing him back. “You want me to be someone I’m not. Not the program-me, but the one I am based on who exists outside the system.”

Flustered at Fett’s intuitiveness, razor-sharp and cutting deep, Din’s denial was on the tip of his tongue. “You’re all that’s left. The Purge…” Din’s voice failed in the wake of bad memories. “Mandalorians are not what they used to be. But I’m going to bring you with me, like Grogu, and you’re both going to _live,_ unchained to the grid. With Grogu, we’re going to change the future of the _universe.”_

“How do you know that change will be for the better?” Fett countered. “I should stay here. I should remain and protect the system. That’s what I’m meant to do. I’m going to protect you, and get you out of here. But I cannot go with you when you leave.”

Din clutched his shoulder again and spun him around to face Din. “You don’t understand,” he said desperately. “The system failed. The imps have run it into the ground, spreading their corruption into every line of code and every datachip. I’m going to unplug it. I’m going to _destroy the grid._ If you stay, you’ll be destroyed along with it. There’s nothing left to protect but Grogu. I need you to protect him with me. This is the _Way.”_

Fett sagged under Din’s hand. “You do not need me, Din.”

“I do,” Din averred. “I do, I do. I’m taking you with me.”

*******

The next day, they charged the Portal.

They’d swapped the light cycle for a solar sailer. The lazy drifting across the cloudless sky belied the tense battle ahead.

With the Portal near, they traded the skiff for twin fighter jets. They flew the rest of the way into the imperial center with weapons hot. 

Imp programs tried to stop them, but with Fett on Din’s side and not theirs, they won their hard-fought passage to the Portal. 

Din landed and hopped out of the cockpit, running to the Portal’s core with Grogu in one hand and his identity disc in the other. “Come on!” he shouted to Fett, who was right behind him. 

An identity disc rushed dangerously by Din’s helmet, hurled with the intent to kill. To de-rez.

“Go, go!” Fett ordered, whirling around and detaching his own double discs, bending his knees and taking up a defensive position, still the most sleek and dangerous thing on the grid. 

Din ran until he was just in front of the Portal. He spun around and prepared to hold up his identity disk into the beam of light. 

“Fett, come on!”

Din’s identity disc started to ascend, unlocking the Portal and bathing him and Grogu in a streaming pulses of light from the other side.

And Fett was _there,_ in Din’s arms, the twin discs he’d flung at their attackers careening back towards his outstretched hand. He needed those discs. Needed them to be _Boba Fett._

The three of them dematerialized.

*********

Din emerged from the Portal back in the ruins of the derelict Mandalorian throne room. The dusty holovid projector was still whirring away, the system humming as it had hummed on and on for countless, untouched cycles. 

At first, Din feared he was alone. But Grogu climbed down from his neck, cooing at him. They’d made it.

But where was Fett?

Din waited with his heart in this throat for Fett to materialize outside the grid. 

He waited.

And waited.

Had Fett not made it? Din thought he was right there! 

Or was Fett correct all along about the programs? Was a program even as special and unique as Fett not able to transcend the system? Were only the isomorphs like Grogu able to do so with their strange, Creator-tapped powers? 

The air smelled like ozone and electricity. Din heard it zap and spark. 

Finally, he saw something.

A dazzling beam of white light shot across the room from the holovid projector. 

In a shimmering mist so bright that Din had to look away, Boba Fett rematerialized. He stood there in his black Mandalorian ensemble, t-visor taking in his new surroundings and landing on Din with pinpoint precision. “Din.”

Din pulled him into a fierce hug. “You’re with me.”

Fett looked around at what must be the strangest sight he’d ever seen. Instead of the black and light-lined starkness of the grid, everything here was awash in vivid colors, including Din. Fett’s helmet was pulled off his head and dropped to the ground forgotten. He looked around with new eyes, awed gaze landing again on Din. He touched Din’s silver beskar armor reverently. “You’re stunning.”

Din’s hands came up to the latches of his own helmet. “Just wait. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Fett’s eyes lit up. 

Din removed his helmet. 

They had a whole galaxy to change. 


End file.
